


to smaller kingdoms

by copperiisulfate



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperiisulfate/pseuds/copperiisulfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyond these choice selfish things, these people in his life and for them to stay in it now, ghosts and all, Tatara doesn’t think he’s ever really known <i>what</i> he wanted. </p><p>He supposes that, once, he had wanted to turn a boy into a King and then he’d gone and managed it.</p><p>And look where that had gotten him; look where that had gotten all of them.</p><p>[AU where Mikoto dies and Izumo and Tatara deal with the aftermath]</p>
            </blockquote>





	to smaller kingdoms

**Author's Note:**

> for consta-ntly on tumblr, based on the prompt: Kusanagi and Totsuka getting together after Mikoto's death.

The thing is, in retrospect, Suoh Mikoto was too big for this, too abstract a concept, an idea, all of it bigger than his own flesh and blood and bones.

_A King._

It didn’t matter that they were there, that they adored him, didn’t matter didn’t matter  _didn’t matter_  because it wasn’t enough.

 

*

 

Tatara goes through the stages of grief in some kind of chaotic, cataclysmic order. It seems like he has accepted it easily a few days into it, after denial and intermittent silence and false reassurances that Kusanagi-san had insisted weren’t needed, not for anyone, had insisted that it was fine, that he was allowed to grieve just as they all were.

His anger, if it can even be called that, is quiet and mostly self-directed. Mostly, it’s born out of the feeling that he has failed, failed in his purpose, failed his king, and doesn’t understand how Kusanagi-san is coping, doesn’t understand because Kusanagi-san is the only person who understood— _who understands—_ who also cast his life aside for king and, unlike Tatara, he actually had a life that could have maybe been more than this.

Tatara doesn’t bother with bargaining, and well, the depression is in the air anyway, in the line of Kusanagi-san’s smile, weak and paper-thin, just as there is also anger in there, like cool steel, also self-directed, because they were always good at blaming themselves, not just for their own faults but also for the faults of others.

But then, there’s a moment and a look they share, and a decision they have to make. This could destroy them, destroy everything they have built, never mind that there have been moments where  _who even cared about what they built_  because who they built it for is now gone— _but then_ , even though the air is heavy and the kind of visibility that would normally resemble foresight is dim, so, so dim, and the dark seems to be showing no signs of letting up, they are well aware that this is it. This could destroy everything they have  _left_  now—and there isn’t much, could tear them apart if they go on and let it.

 

* 

 

The fact that he begins to call him  _Izumo-san_  is the first change, and it happens on its own account. He surprises even himself with it when it comes out of his mouth. Something inside him is more reckless now, more so than usual, and maybe it’s for the better, or so he tells himself. He’s been feeling a little bolder, bordering on delirious.  _The_   _King is gone._ Reality feels a little bit surreal, makes him reach out, subconsciously, to grab hold of the rest before it slips out of his grasp.

In the privacy of his head, he’s begun to think of him as  _Izumo,_ without the honorific, because he _needs_ it, and maybe because of the illusion it creates. 

Given that Kusanagi-sa—Izumo, has been vaguely hinting at shutting the bar down, Tatara supposes it’s all the more reason for him to hold on to his illusions for as long as he can. Soon enough, they will be dispelled for him anyway.

He knows that he could leave before it happens, could wander like driftwood, could wither away in his own loneliness because right now it feels easier than staying and the reminder that every time he opens his eyes, the world is a little bit colder and a whole lot dimmer. 

Or, he could stay and weather it out, bear the reminder and the change in the air and the hole in his heart and his life because he doesn’t want to be alone again, without people to call home again.

(And possibly, that the fear of loneliness runs darker, deeper, than the need to forget, and so the choice isn’t really a choice after all.)

 

*

 

He makes note of a film of dust on the counter when he lets himself into the bar with his old key one Sunday afternoon. The place hasn’t officially been open for business to outsiders since that day in Ashinaka and most of the kids have slowly trickled out and away, first in mourning, and then, because life went on.

These days, it’s mostly just the two of them, here to be with Anna. They’d planned to take turns staying the night but they both wind up here, incapable of going to their own homes, especially in the early days. 

Tatara finds himself hanging about the couch downstairs, wandering at night, unable to get much sleep and feeling like he’s wearing the skin of Mikoto’s ghost—

And that’s another change that happened inside his head while he wasn’t looking. In his head, he is… _Mikoto_  now. He’ll always be  _King_ but, the memory of him as a boy, made of flesh and blood is somehow  _more_ —and at the thought, Tatara has to shut his eyes _tight_ , reach for his camera only to tuck it away without powering it on, has to fight the urge to hurl it against a wall. 

He doesn’t identify it as anger until he sees it mirrored in Izumo on another night—in Izumo, who wears the ghost in different ways, the long lines of him leaning on the brick by the bar’s entrance, chain-smoking the latter half of the night away after a fight. His arms are scratched up to his elbows and he whispers something about  _loose ends_  and  _no more of that_  with a wry laugh that sets Tatara’s jaw on edge.

Tatara wants to shove him hard against the wall with strength he doesn’t have and  _scream_  and it’s a re-enactment of a scene he’s tried to erase from memory. They’re ghosts, all of them, acting out an old story, over and over (and Tatara had never believed in ghosts but can’t help but think now that _he_ ’s laughing at them, probably). 

Instead, Tatara watches from the doorway, watches him crush his cigarette under his boot and thinks of Izumo’s hands. He wants to touch him, wants to take his hands and hold them down in a basin of water, watch as the water turns rust-coloured, and watch his hands come out clean.

Nights like these, the Homra chant rings loud in his ears, like a taunt.

 

*

 

There are other nights and some of those are better.

They sit together by the foot of Anna’s bed and it will be the only time Tatara can rest a little, blink away the ghosts, hum an old song or two against Izumo’s shoulder.

Neither of them goes into Mikoto’s room if they can help it.

 

*

 

Today, Izumo is flipping through the newspaper. Tatara settles himself behind the counter and beside him, looks over his shoulder, catches sight of the real estate pages and tries to keep his voice and his breathing even.

"Two bedrooms, huh?"

"One for Anna."

"So it’s happening." He tries for cheerful but it comes out hollow. "You’ve decided then?"

Izumo looks at him for a long moment, apology written all over. “I’m sorry.” 

Tatara laughs, weakly, shrugs a shoulder. “It’s no big deal.” It was coming and he’s known it, should have been ready for it. Izumo doesn’t owe him anything. “Guess I gotta find a new job.”

And Izumo shakes his head. “I’ll find you something else.”

"With your connections, I don’t doubt it, but don’t worry." He stops himself short of saying  _I’ll figure it out myself—_ but then that would have been a joke and a half since when had he ever figured out anything for himself? Besides, it shouldn’t really hit him so hard. He has never really held much attachment to brick and furniture and four walls but there’s a part of him that’s fixated because  _what if I don’t want something else? What if I want to be with her and be with you and it feels like this is the only way I can?_  

At any rate, this is what Izumo wants for himself and Izumo deserves what he wants, deserves that and more.  

And Tatara? Well, beyond these choice selfish things, these people in his life and for them to stay in it now, ghosts and all, Tatara doesn’t think he’s ever really known _what_ he wanted. 

He supposes that, once, he had wanted to turn a boy into a King and then he’d gone and managed it.

And look where that had gotten him; look where that had gotten all of them.

"What if it was me instead?" And Tatara doesn’t know why he says it, can’t stop himself before the words are out.

Izumo glares at him. “Don’t be stupid.”

"Would you close the bar then?"

"If it was _you_ , his sword would have gone down crashing soon after anyway. The fuck would I do with the place on my own?" And without giving him time to answer, Izumo snaps, "What if it was  _me_? What would you and Mikoto have done with a bar?” He barks a laugh at the thought. “Would’ve been hopeless idiots.”

"We would have been," Tatara looks away. "So please don’t say that, Izumo-san."

"You know, I don’t understand why you don’t just call me Izumo. The charade is over anyway. The toy soldier family has disbanded, the king is dead, and the audience is gone."

He doesn’t sound upset, just impassive, but it’s the first time either of them has said it out loud.

"I—" Tatara starts, feels the illusion shattering swiftly beneath his feet and doesn’t have enough time to process it, and maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. "Okay," he says. "Izumo."

"Good," says Izumo, and then, without missing a beat, "do you want to come and live with us?"

And it’s non sequitur on top of non sequitur to the point where Tatara’s more than a little thrown off.

"Obviously, no pressure, and I wanna give you an out." and when Tatara still says nothing, cannot  _manage_  to say anything, Izumo continues:

"Look, I know he was the reason you started hanging around here and if you wanted to do something better with your life now, I wouldn’t want to get in your way. Still, I wanted to ask." His eyes are back on the newsprint but he smiles, a little crooked, a little nostalgic. "She would miss you." 

"And you?" Tatara asks, a little dazed, but he  _can’t not_   _ask_. “Would you miss me?”

"Every moment of every day," Izumo says, without hesitation.

Tatara shifts against the counter, feels his body move before he can rein it in, tugging at the scarf around Izumo’s neck, gently, so that they are properly facing one another.

"I have nothing better." Tatara says at last, with all the sincerity his heart can hold. "There isn’t—won’t ever be," and he reaches for Izumo’s face with a hand, curls his fingers in his hair and if his hand is shaking, he only realizes it now, laughs aloud at the sight and it comes out as a sob.

Izumo exhales, and it may as well be the breath they’ve both been holding since that day. He draws Tatara into his arms and buries his face in Tatara’s hair and it’s impossible to tell which one of them is shaking now.

They stay like that for a long, long time.

 

*

 

There was no Suoh crater; the blue king ensured this.

Still, there was something of an earthquake, not the type to be seen but it shook a foundation all the same, knocked pillars of a kingdom to the ground.

Eventually, the dust must settle.

They wait and then they rebuild, start small but no less lovingly, weary, but the end-product will be no less hospitable.

 

*

 

Homra, in essence, was over the day Suoh Mikoto died.

Some weeks later, the bar that shared its name is sold.

A year later, it will open as a restaurant, and then years later, a fashion boutique, and who knows what else.

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

It’s her second week on the job and it’s been a slow day but the store clerk working the cash register this afternoon finally sees a customer lingering by the open doorway, a girl with silver hair. 

There’s a man’s voice, carrying over from outside, saying, very matter-of-factly, “Have you ever considered that maybe she might be getting too old for the kind of dresses they have in here?”

"Come on," and a second voice, and a short blond young man comes into view. He leads both the girl and a taller man in through the doorway by the hand, says brightly, "It’ll be fun!"

 

 


End file.
